He knocks twice, a pause, then a moan.
A thin man, the stale patch of smoke rides behind him like an air raid.
He doesn't laugh, only cocks his shoulders like an idea firmly mounted on the tip of my tounge.
His visit is unannnounced and unanimous,
But i let him in anyway
So I must be forgetful. Lazy and profound.

"Darlin', the time has come. (kisses and chambers)
I don't come around here enough anymore"

Eyes like Expressionism, I'm bound by the composure.
His speech is strong; Granite, an Adamantine vocal chord.
But the Craze's are shown around his neck, a ballon infantry.
What was he hiding? or showing for that matter.
I can never get a grip on analysis or mythology.

"This is important. Puff. We are surreal my Darlin'. Science Fiction meets love making. Ah Buisness cards are the death of me."

A vinegette. Fade to black dialouge.
He's a labyrinth of backwords speech but everything makes sense to me.
The door clicks shut gently like his footsteps coming closer to me.
The edge of divinity is on the cups of his heel I believe.
I suddenly felt a gasp crwal up my throat.
The way he watched the floor, a cheetah gaze and moved his hands.
I finally knew his purpose of this intrusion.
He is a milk carton artist.
The worst of the kind.

"Like i said before, the time has come. My life has now become only buisness cards and dames. I am a film noir villian and I love you."

I know what he means.

"Goodbye babe, I'll send your daughter the check and a car."

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